Sent into Exile.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue XXIII, 3 December 1898, Page 718

Sent into Exile.

JW

C.E CheeseMan.

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS. CHAPTERS 1. and ll.—The manager of the Violet Hyde Dramatic Company, Mr Tomlins, and Mr Dalzell, one of the actors and husband of the star, having discussed the extremely unsatisfactory condition of business, resolve that the one thing to revive the ebbing fortunes of the company is to get Dalzell's little girl to take a part in the performance. The child is a born actress, but very delicate. and Mrs Dalzell, who has lost another little girl through overwork on the boards, has resolved that the one that remains to her shall not be sacrificed in the same way. The manager easily gains the husband s consent to Hilda s appearing in the next piece. Dalzell is a thriftless dissipated individual, who has squandered his wife's earnings, and is chiefly anxious to get more money for himself, but Mrs Dalzell is not to be dissuaded from her resolve, and determines that rather than that her child should go on the stage she will send her away to be brought up by friends in England.

CHAPTER HI. A LAST FAREWELL. lhe end of the Company's long season in Sydney had arrived. The day of their departure was fixed; their passages were taken for San Francisco. They had given their third farewell performance: they had had as many "positively last nights.’ The very last of these had been distinguished by a perfect ovation; the actors had been deafened by applause, and had literally waded through flowers. Mr Tomlins’ complexion was almost of a sanguine hue; he had seldom felt better after balancing his accounts, than at this very successful end of a season that had promised to l.»e disastrous.

•Everything has gone well with us since we put that on the boards." he said, alluding to the play that had made their first success. "It was the turn of the tide, and we took it at the flood. I only hope our luck will hold.’

’Luck never does,’ said Dalzell, sententiously; ‘at least the right sort of luck doesn’t. But only get in the way of the other kind, and it will hold faster than the suckers of an octopus.’ ’Ha! I’ve seen that on the stage." said Mr Tomlins.

"What! the octopus? I didn’t know that was to be found amongst theatrical “property.” •Why. you know the play taken from Victor Hugo’s book, and the scene in which the man—the hero 1 suppose —fights with an octopus.’ ’Ah, well,’ said Dalzell, with a laugh, "some poor wretches are fighting with one all their lives long.’ ‘That’s true,’ the manager answered. ‘but they might soon end that fight. Why don’t they cut off the arms that are dragging them down?"

‘Why don’t they"?’ Dalzell elevated his eyebrows, and gave a shrug to his shoulders. He knew well to what the manager referred. ‘I don't suppose you’d get an answer to that question, if you went round and asked them all. one by one. Perhaps the enlightened people' who know exactly what’s wrong with the world, and what is going to cure it. might tell you. But dear me! why are we moralizing about it?—you a trader in dramas and dramatists, and I a seedy actor, a strolling player. I don’t know why I took to this vagabond life of the stage. I might have tried literature, I might have written dramas, or perhaps novels.’

‘Not you.’ Mr Tomlins said decidedly. ‘Not your line at all. Novels!

Author of • A Rolling Stone.'" Had He Known, and * On a Lee Shore.'

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Why, you'd never have patience to finish one, or if you did, by the time you d got to the end of the second volume, you’d have forgotten what was in the first. You would be killing a man in one chapter, and bringing him up again, as fresh as a lark, in the next.’

'Often done, my dear fellow,’ said Dalzell, ‘very often done in novels. It s effective. But I was going to say that you need not look so jubilant. A run of good luck never lasts. This Pacific slope, as they call it, may prove the down grade for us. We did well in Melbourne: we have done well here. Therefore, it is as clear as davlight that we shall not do well in ’Frisco.’

‘What does Mrs Dalzell say about her daughter now?’ the manager asked, ignoring Dalzell s last remark. ‘l5 she still o|iposed to het acting, now that everyone is amazed at the talent shown by so young a child?’ ’Mrs Dalzell will never say but one thing. All those wise sayings. Tomlins. that have passed into proverbs about the changeability of woman, should be struck”out of the list. My experience convinces me that they are untrue. A woman never changes her mind.’ So far as Mrs Dalzell was concerned, her husband had spoken the truth. She would not change. But he little thought on what purpose she was bent, with all the force of a resolute and determined nature. Mrs Parkes, who had promised to take charge of Hilda, had been employed in some subordinate position in the theatre in Sydney, but was not a member of the company, and only travelled with them as far as Auckland. where she had a married daughter whom she wished to see before leaving for England. All this fell in with Mrs Dalzell’s plans. Her child would be with her until Auckland was reached. She would go ashore with her mother and Mrs Parkes, but she would not return, and probably her disappearance would never be noticed until long after the steamer had resumed her voyage. Mrs Parkes would take passages for herself and her charge by a direct steamer to England, some three or four days after their arrival at Auckland. Of the trustworthiness of the woman in whose care she had placed her child. Mrs Dalzell was assured. She had provided Mrs Parkes with money to meet all expenses, and in addition had paid her well for her services. The money she had in hand was not sutlicient for this, and in consequence she had been obliged to sell some of her jewellery. Sydney was left behind, and the steamer was breasting the deep—troughed waves of the Pacific. Within five days she would gain the shelter of the New Zealand coast. During this time, Dalzell saw but little of his wife and child—as little as he could well do. considering that they travelled in company. Just now, he felt a little uncomfortable while in their presence. He was ashamed and dissatisfied —much more so than he would have liked to own. or than anyone who knew him would have supposed. Before leaving Sydney, he had transgressed again. He had had money in his possession, and so long as he had money, he was never safe from two temptations—to drink and to gamble. While on the steamer, he

was, fortunately for himself, under some sort of restraint, and if one refused to consider the extraordinary number of cigars he had smoked, and the .hours upon hours in which he had sat with three other men fingering certain well-worn pieces of paste board, with the dexterity of one who was an adept at all games of cards, his conduct might have been described as singularly temperate. Meanwhile Hilda and her mother, left to themselves, clung to each other in a companionship which never had been so close. In the fine weather that prevailed most of the way over, it was their chief pleasure to sit side by side, watching how wave after wave was overtaken and passed, how the clear dark green water was rippled and flecked with foam in the steamer's wake, and how from east to west, from north to south, the blue arch of the sky curved to the heaving sea. They had little to say to each other, much to think about. The sad and wistful glances in which their eyes would meet, the tender hand-claspings. the caressing way with which the little girl, crouching besides the low deck chair in which Mrs Dalzell sat, would lay her head upon her mother’s knee, showed the drift of those thoughts they could not put into words. They were leaving each other —for how long? Somehow they were afraid of that thought. But now the New Zealand coast had risen above the water line. The headlands opened their arms, the islands came out from the shelter of the coast, the swell of the open sea sank lower and lower. It was the midst of winter: a mild-tempered winter, that had left the shores so green, and whose sun shone so brightly on the city whose white arms clasped the bay. The rain-washed sky was of the deepest blue, the harbour was a glittering sheet that dazzled the eye. There was just a suggestion of frost in the cool, crisp air—a frost that had not been able to bear the face of the sun. but had vanished in the early morning hour. How near at hand seemed the islands and the distant hills, whose edges were sharply cut against the sky. One might fancy that a short ride, au hour's sail, would take one to the enchanted land that was purple on the far horizon, or to the islets that at the entrance of the port were blue upon the gold. The passengers went ashore: those who were only here for the day as well as those whose voyage was ended. Mr Tomlins had business in the town. Dalzell had some vague intentions of enjoying himself in one way or another—strolling about the streets, calling on people whose acquaintance he had made when some time ago he had sojourned in Auckland. Mrs Dalzell had no friends to see. She walked about the town with Hilda. Mrs Parkes had not been with them when they left the steamer, but it had been arranged that she should join them afterwards, and a meeting-place had been appointed. To the park, in the midst of the town, they turned their steps, and finding a vacant seat sat there, waiting for their friend. After some time she came. She had. indeed, not hurried herself, knowing that the two who waited for her wished to spend these last moments alone. •You will take care of her?' said the mother, looking anxiously in her face. •I'm sure I will, just as if she was mv own.' said honest Airs Parkes. ’•[ think I have told you everything that you must say to Mrs King. But she w’ill have received my letter before you get home. You said you would have Hilda's things sent ashore with your own?'

"Yes; I've seen about that.' said Mrs Parkes. ‘Then there is nothing more to be said —nothing but good-bye. Hilda.' They clung together in silence for a moment. Then Mrs Dalzell turned away, with a white but tearless face. •Take her away." she said. ‘Me have been saying good-bye for a whole week, and I can hear it no longer.’ ‘Oh. ma'am,' said Mrs Parkes, almost ready to burst out crying, ‘are you sure about this? Must you do it? It’s breaking your heart.’ •Oh. no,’ Mrs Dalzell said, trying to speak cheerfully. ‘We are not going to break our hearts, are we. Hilda? I shall write such long letters to you. and by and bye you shall come baek to me. and 'never, never go away again.’ The child looked at her wistfully, but did not answer. With wonderful

self-control she had kept back her tears. 'Mamma told me not to cry,* she said, looking up into the goodnatured face of Mrs Parkes, who was leading her by the hand. They did not look baek; but Mrs Dalzell stood where they had left her. watching till they were out of sight.

At dusk the steamer was slowly moving out of the harbour. The shining bay was streaked with rose. The sunset glow that overspread the west, in a sky that was marvellously clear and pure, seemed like a blush on the delicate cheek of a child. Past the low and rounded bluff on the northern shore, past the three-peaked island. whose wooded slopes were fading from purple into grey, the vessel was steered. When night had fallen she was again on the unsheltered sea. In the lodging-house bedroom which she shared with Mrs Parkes. Hilda cried herself to sleep. At the same time Mrs Dalzell lay in her cabin berth, with closed but sleepless eyes. Now that all was over, she felt a strange sinking of the heart, a shuddering fear of the consequences of her aet. But right or wrong, this was not to be undone: it belonged already to the unalterable past.

CHAPTER IV. THE PRICE OF THE SACRIFICE. So unobservant had Dalzell become of those whose claims on his attention should have been strongest, that it was actually two whole days before he noticed the absence of his child. It is true that other people had remarked that she was no longer with her mother, but they naturally supposed that if Hilda had been left in Auckland it was with the knowledge and approval of both parents. They were not sufficiently interested in the little girl to puzzle themselves with many conjectures as to what had become of her. It was not their business. and they had no reason to suppose there was anything unusual in the matter-

However. Dalzell, being for a whole quarter of an hour in the unusual position of having no entertainment, save such as might lie derived from his own thoughts, began to wonder where Hilda could have hidden herself. When had he seen her last? With some difficulty he remembered that she had been with him on the morning he had landed at Auckland. He had wanted to take her with him. but Mrs Dalzell had made some excuse. and it had been settled that Hilda should wait until her mother went ashore. But as he was leaving Mrs Dalzell had whispered to her. and she had called him back. ‘Papa.’ she had cried, ‘say good-bye before you go' : and she had held up her face to be kissed. ‘Why,’ he had said, laughingly, ‘do you think I am going to run away and leave you? Or is it you two who are plotting to run away?' It was not much of a joke, certainly, but it had struck him as rather strange that neither of the two should smile. He went to seek his wife, and as usual found her on deck, sitting by herself, a little apart from the other passengers. She had a book in her hand, but her vacant eyes seemed to be reading the furrowed sea. rather than the printed page before her. ’I say. Vi.' her husband began, ■what have you done with Hilda? I haven't seen her since we left Auckland. Where have you hidden her?' Mrs Dalzell slowly turned her eyes tow ards him. ‘ Hilda is not with us.' she said calmly. • Not with us !' In his extreme surprise. he went back a step or two.

' Whatever do you mean ?' • What I say.' Her face had turned very pale, but she spoke with a composure that seemed unnatural. She had anticipated this moment, and was prepared for it. •You must be losing your senses !' he eried angrily. ‘ Am I to understand that Hilda is not on board, or is this some ext.radrdinary joke you have played on me ? But that ean't be : you never made a joke in your life.' ‘ I assure you that I am perfectly serious.' Mrs Dalzell replied, in a voice that was not so steady as before. • She is not on the steamer.' ‘ In the name of Heaven, where is she then ? You seem to have taken the law into your own hands : to have disposed of our child as if I had no authority over her. no right to speak. Where is she ?’ ‘ I cannot tell you.’ ‘ Cannot ! What nonsense I You

must tell me ; you shall !’ He was speaking in loud and angry tones, and some of the other passengers who were on deck began to look towards him. with wondering glances. ‘ A stiff breeze over there.' said one gentleman, knowingly. ‘ These actors. poor fellows, are generally unfortunate in their matrimonial ventures.' ‘ In this ease." his friend replied. • 1 think it's the man that's a bad bargain. His wife seems a quiet, ladylike woman.’ ‘ Oh. the quiet ones are always the most aggravating.' said the other, with a laugh. Dalzell hurried below, his face dark with passion. In his haste he ran against one of the stewards, who was bound to the smoldng-rooni. with some glasses on a tray. ‘ Beg pardon, sir.' said the man. drawing to one side and flattening himself as much as possible, so that the irate Dalzell might have plenty of room. ‘Beg pardon I I should think so !' the latter retorted, with the absurd anger of a man so thoroughly out of temper that he is ready to look upon the slightest affront or annoyance as an insult. ‘ Do your employers keep you here to batter gentlemen with your trays and glasses?' ■Gentlemen?' muttered the steward sulkily. ‘ I guess I know a gentleman when 1 see him. and you are not of that sort.’ Dalzell very unceremoniously burst into the cabin which was occupied by Mr Tomlins and another gentleman. The other gentleman was on deck : but Mr Tomlins remained below, prostrate on his narrow couch. He suffered from sea-sickness, and was not consoled in his affliction by the assurances of his friends that it would do him more good than harm. He had been ill most of the way over from Sydney : he was now—after the happy respite of a day ashore in Auckland—ill again. He had taken all the vaunted specifics for the malady : he had tried living on fruit : he had eaten oysters : he had drunk champagne, and he was neither exhilarated nor restored. No one else was unwell, which made the matter all the more vexatious. The sea was smooth, yet Tomlins lay in his berth and refused all nourishment, except the smallest and daintiest morsels, which were sedulously provided by the stewards. These functionaries were particularly attentive to Mr Tomlins, who dispensed his fees with a liberal hand. When Dalzell invaded his privacy, he was languidly eating some slices of lemon. • What is the matter ?' he said, raising his sallow face from the pillow, to stare at the flushed and excited Dalzell. • I wish you would come on deck.' said the actor abruptly. ‘ and talk to Mrs Dalzell. You have some influence with her. I don't seem to have any.’ ’Good gracious ? what can have happened ?’ exclaimed Mr Tomlins. • Happened 1 I can scarcely believe it yet. She has spirited away Hilda, that's all. Left the child in Auckland. I suppose, though she refuses to tell me where.’ ■ This is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of.' said Mr Tomlins. getting out of his berth at once. He was so astonished that he forgot all about his sea-sickness. ’Spirited away Hilda ! Oh. there's some mistake. You're dreaming.’ ■<>h. well, come and see.' Dalzell said, with an angry laugh. • But what good can I do '?' asked Mr Tomlins, helplessly. ‘1 tell you plainly. I'd rather not be involved in your domestic affairs. It's not quite the thing. I ean't interfere between you and your wife.' ■ I asked you as a friend.' Dalzell said reproachfully. ‘ I assure yon. Mrs Dalzell is more likely to be influenced by a word from you. than by anything I can say. She distrusts me. because I have always opposed her about Hilda : but she may listen to another person.’ He went out of the cabin, and Tom-

lins unwillingly followed him. On deck they found Mrs Dalzell, still sitting where Dalzell had left her, and still lookins' on the sea. ’Good morning. Mrs Dalzell,’ the manager said. ‘ I have not seen you for a day or two. You are more fortunate than I am ; you are able to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.’ He drew one of the ehairs nearer to her. and sitting down, said in a lower voice. • What is this I hear about your little girl ? Mr Dalzell has surprised me very much. Is it true that you have left Hilda behind ?’ •Quite true.' said Mrs Dalzell, also in subdued tones. ‘ I did it for the best.' ‘ Eor the best !’ exclaimed Dalzell, scornfully. ' You do not understand me.’ his wife said. 'lt was the only way to save her from a life which I had determined she should never lead. If she had stayed with us she must have gone on the stage. You were training her for that : you withstood all my attempts to prevent her acting. It was better that she should go. She is with good and kindhearted people ; she will have all that heart can wish.’ • Except one thing.' said Mr Tomlins. Mrs Dalzell looked at him inquiringly. • I mean she won't have her mother's care. Depend upon it. Mrs Dalzell, that unless the mother's a very strange person indeed, the child who is parted from her is always to be pitied." ' What about the father ?’ Dalzell askeil sneeringly. ’He of course is of no importance : no good to anyone. You both seem to leave me out of the question.’ Not at all.’ said Mr Tomlins, suavely. ‘We could hardly do that.’ •Perhaps Mrs Dalzell will kindly explain.’ her husband continued, ‘how it is that one who professes such a lofty unselfishness. such devoted affection for her daughter, can have coolly arranged this separation. She must be very fond of the child she has quartered upon strangers.’

-Mrs Dalzell's face flushed vividly. ’Do you think I found it easy to part with her?’ she said. ‘Do you think 1 don't want her back again every hour of my life? She was all that I had! But 1 don't regret what I have done. If I had loved her less, perhaps 1 mightn't have sent her away. I wouldn't keep her here to make a little drudge of her, to spoil her childhood. to steal her best years from her. No; she shall be happy as other children are: she shall have their pleasures and enjoyments. The life we lead is not good for a child. It was w earing her out. as it wore Isabel out. Oh! have you forgotten that a little while ago I had another child? When she died in my arms. I vowed that at any cost I would keep Hilda safe. But what is the use of talking? You do not believe me. You think that I am foolish or fanciful; that 1 do not love my child: that I sent her away from me out of spite or for a mere whim—you think everything but the truth.' 'No. no. Mrs Dalzell." the manager said gently. He was touched by her distress, and he felt the truth of the words she had so passionately uttered. ’Xo one who knows you could think that you did not love your child. We believe that you would sacrifice anything for her good. I'm not accustomed to lecture people, or to moralise, or to speak about this sort of thing at all .’ Mr Tomlins began to be hot and uncomfortable. There was even some sort of a glow on his sallow face. It made him feel shy. this preaching to the handsome lady whose melancholy dark eyes watched hint so earnestly. ‘But.’ he resumed. ‘I must say I don't think you've acted fairly. You forgot one thing—you forgot that your child didn't belong to you only, but also to your husband.' ‘You think kindly of me.’ Mrs Dalzell said. ‘You are right. Perhaps I did forget. I ho|H- .’ she just glanced at Dalzell ‘my husband will

forgive me that.’ Her eyes filled with tears, she rose from her seat, and walked away from them. ‘Go after her,’ said the manager, putting his hand on Dalzell's shoulder. ‘She will tell you all about it now.’ Dalzell shook his head. 'No. You don’t know her.’ He was deeply offended. For days after this, he scarcely spoke to his wife. Before his indifference had at least been good humoured, and when he had talked with her. he had addressed her kindly. People had noticed that they were seldom together; but no one had supposed there was any estrangement. But now the fact that they were on ill terms with each other could no longer be concealed. ‘l’ll not humble myself by offering to make it up,’ Dalzell told himself fiercely. ‘She shall come to me. I’ll make her tell me all about it yet.’ He knew that she felt the studied neglect with which he treated her, the marked aversion with which he would turn away when he saw her approach him, the sneering manner in which, even when others were present, he did not scruple to address her. He saw her lips quiver, her cheeks flush at these slights and insults, and at times he had the grace to feel ashamed of himself. He justified his conduct by the excuse that he was humbling her only to bring her to him again. But what he expected never came to pass. She made no submission.

At last he was weary of being angry. ‘Look here, Violet,’ he said one day. ‘let’s have an end of this. You've treated me roughly; but I don't want to be hard with you. It's an uncomfortable sort of life we're leading. Don't you think we might be friends again?’ They were alone in their cabin. For answer his wife laid her head against his shoulder and burst into tears.

'Why Vi,’ he said, feeling very magnanimous and generous because he was behaving so kindly to her, ‘why will you cry over it now? If I said anything that hurt your feelings, I’m sure I beg your pardon. Will that do? Come now. tell me what you have done with Hilda. Of course. I can make inquiries. I can find out where she is without your help: but I'd rather you told me. It seems strange you should have so little confidence in me.’

’Will you promise me one thing?’ she asked, looking up into his face. 'What is it? Of course. I'll promise anything reasonable.’ 'if I tell you where she is, and send for her back again, will you allow me to have the control of her education? I mean, will you give up all idea of her going on the stage?’

'That's ridiculous! Give up the very thing she's best fitted for! On the stage she'd make her fortune. No; I'm too anxious for my girl to do well to promise any such thing.’ "Then 1 can't tell you anything,' Mrs Dalzell answered, decidedly. ‘I am sorry; but I will not give way in this. You need make no inquiries. fou will never find her without my help.’ ‘A saint would lose patience with you!’ Dalzell said. ‘Do you mean what you say? Will you never tell me? Are we always to be cut off from our child?’ 'No. not always. She will come back after a few years.’ ‘A few years!' 'Yes. Surely we can spare her, if we know that it is for her good.’ ‘1 don't know it. I don't believe any such thing. You’ll hear from her, I suppose; or have you set your face against that also?’ ‘Oh. no! I shall hear from her sometimes.’ ‘Ah!' he said, meditatively, ‘if letters came, he might see them. But, of course, it was all nonsense to suppose that he wouldn't be able to solve this problem. The first chance he had of starting his investigations he would search the whole world, but he would find his child.’ ‘So you wont?' he said, by way of conclusion. ‘No,’ Mrs Dalzell answered. It was always the same answer. He would not yield to the condition she had made, and therefore she invariably met him with a blank refusal. ‘No. no. and again no.’ ‘The fact is.’ Dalzell sarcastically remarked to Mr Tomlins. ‘1 believe I’ve discovered what Carlyle was always spouting about—the “Everlasting No.” ’ At the end of the voyage he knew no more about Hilda than he had done at the beginning. Two months later he was still in the same condi-

tion of bewildering ignorance. He had done everything that could be thought of. short of going himself to search for his daughter. This was impossible, unless he broke his theatrical engagements. He was obliged to rest satisfied with Mrs Dalzell’s assurances that Hilda was well eared for. He was not aware that his wife had any friends who would have done her sueh a service. Years ago he had heard of Mrs King, but at that time she had been in India, and he knew nothing of her return to England. As for the other person whose assistance Mrs- Dalzell had required, he had never noticed that they were accustomed to confer with each other, or that there was any intimacy between them. That Mrs Parkes was concerned in this affair he never dreamed. If a letter came from those who had charge of Hilda he should insist on seeing it. But he was positive that no letter had come. His wife’s restlessness and anxiety was proof of this. He knew as well as if she had told him that she was pining for news of her child.

It was at this time that her health began to fail. She grew thinner; there were hollows in her cheeks, which until now had scarcely lost the rounded outline of youth; her face was haggard and faded, a face that had forgotten how to smile. But she had never acted more brilliantly; and the American tour was a series of successes. Dalzell’s anger might have been assuaged by this good fortune, if, for the first time, his wife had not insisted on retaining for her own use almost the whole of her earnings, which amounted to something considerable. She was saving her money, she told him. so that when Hilda returned she might perhaps be able to give up acting, and to live quietly with her daughter. ‘I am so tired of it all,’ she said, and Dalzell, as he looked into her altered face, so wan and thin and colourless, felt himself cheeked by a sudden feeling of pity. They were at Chicago when she was taken ill. It was only a cold at first —a chill she had caught while acting. N< one supposed that the illness was dangerous. It meant no more than a few days’ confinement in her own room, a short rest from acting and then she would go back to her work. Not until near the end did Dalzell discover how fallacious were these hopes.

She had a relapse, and rapidly grew worse. All through the long and feverish nights she talked of her child. Over and over again she asked the same questions. Where was Hilda? When woidd she come? Why did they not send for her? It seemed as if in these delirious wanderings her mind had lost the secret which belonged to herself alone, and that she had forgotten why her child was no longer with her.

‘There is one thing that should be done at once,’ the doctor said to Dalzell. ‘The nurse tells me that Mrs Dalzell is continually asking for her daughter who is absent. She is fretting for her. It will not do to thwart her in this. By all means, send for the child.’

‘Send for her!’ Dalzell cried despairingly. ‘Oh. if 1 could. I’d give my right hand to be able to bring her back to her mother! But I don’t know where she is. My wife never would tell me. She sent the child away from her. and it has broken her heart.’

Then in a few words he. told the story of Hilda's disappearance, the doctor listening in silent astonishment.

They thought it possible that Mrs Dalzell might still say something which woidd give them a clue as to where Hilda might be found. But nothing was to be gained from her incoherent ramblings, nothing but the piteous cry for Hilda—Hilda, who was so far away that even if she had been summoned she would have come too late. At last the fever had burnt itself out. Mrs Dalzell slept from exhaustion. For almost a whole day she had been sleeping, or else had lain in a half unconscious state, too feeble to raise her eyelids and look around her. It was night, and still she appeared to sleep. Her husband watched with her. He had sent the nurse away. ‘You had better get some rest.’ he said. ‘1 would rather be alone here. If you are needed I will call you at once.' He was left alone, sitting beside the lied and watching the face of his wife.

How still it was; how white and ealm! Against the dark hair tossed on the pillow the delicate features seemed to be carved of ivory. Once or twiee a sudden fear seized him, and he leaned over to listen for her breathing. But he heard it again, though sometimes it faltered, sometimes seemed almost to fail.

The midnight hour passed. From somewhere near at hand he heard a clock strike one — two — and then three. He remembered the common saying that more people die in these early hours of morning than at any other time. Would she see the light of another day? The doctor had owned that he scarcely expected it. Would she ever awake from that sleep? He prayed that she might. With all his soul he longed that she might know him again, that she might speak to him before she died.

All at once her breathing began to be troubled. She moved her hands restlessly; she awoke. It was so sudden. the lifting of those dark-fringed eyelids, that he almost started. But the eyes were dull and lustreless. They seemed to be vainly striving to look through a mist, to be searching for other eyes that should have met their gaze. They were bent on Dalzell’s face; but he could not tell from that look, earnest as it was. whether he was recognised. ‘What is it, dearest?’ he asked, in a choked voice. ‘I am here. What is it that you want?’

She tried to say something; but her utterance was so indistinct that he could not understand her. One word onlv he distinguished, and that was ‘Hilda.’

‘Oh,’ he said, so overmastered by his passionate grief that he could scarcely articulate, ‘tell me where Hilda is! Don’t you understand? I will say it again.’ He bent over her and spoke slowly and distinctly. ‘Where is Hilda? Tell me, so that I may send for her. Oh. for God’s sake listen!’ She heard him. and from the expression of her face he felt sure that she understood. With a painful effort she tried to speak: but again it was only an unintelligible jumble of sounds.

No longer able to control himself, he sobbed aloud. The nurse, who, unheard by him. had come into the room, touched him softly. ‘Oh. sir,’ she whispered, ‘don’t trouble her now. It is too late.’

‘Can you do nothing?’ he said, turning upon the poor woman almost furiously. ‘Can’t you give her something? Oh, if she could speak to me!’ The nurse poured something into a glass and gave it to Mrs Dalzell. It was a strong restorative, and for a moment her breathingwas less laboured. Once more the eyelids fluttered, were raised, and then drooped again. ‘Violet,’ Dalzell said, bending over her. ‘Violet! Oh. my love, speak to me!’

It seemed as if his words had broken the bonds of death. With the last effort of her strength she struggled nearer him. Her eyes were wide open now; her head sank upon his arm: it was surely a smile that parted her lips. She spoke, and this time her words, though very low. were clear and distinct as he had ever heard them. ‘I am so tired.' she murmured—‘so very tired.’

No more. He was stunned, stupefied with excess of grief. Heedless of the long silence, heedless of the frozen calm of that breast which so lately had panted against his own. he still watched the white face that rested on his arm. still listened for the feeble, faltering voice. She had not gone. Oh. no; she slept. It was a wild hope, a foolish thought that was soon to be drowned in the clamour of despair. Those lips would never speak to him again. Never, never, never! The lamp still burns in that silent room: but without is the pearly light of dawn, the springing of a fresh breeze on the wide grey lake, the growing tumult of a great city awaking from its sleep. Have the gates of morning opened that a soul might pass? For lo! in the jewelled east stand the foundations of that city that knows not death nor sorrow. And below, over vast prairies, over autumn cornfields, over lone farmhouses, over village and town is the march of the ghul young day. Without pause or change, ‘without rest or haste.’ Time moves on. burying our griefs and joys beneath the oblivious years. (To be Continued.)